


The Poetically Hideous Beauty of of Dying

by ProspertheXVIII



Category: The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert (1994)
Genre: F/M, Loss, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-03-06
Packaged: 2018-09-30 00:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10149392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProspertheXVIII/pseuds/ProspertheXVIII
Summary: Not again. She couldn't do this again. And what worried her this time around was that - unlike Trumlet - Bob was not in her life simply for the sake of filling a space. She loved him for Christ's sakes - perhaps more than she loved herself. And she was beginning to wish that she didn't - because that would make things easier...





	

"There is nothing we can do at this point," the doctor looked to Bob as he spoke with a voice that was far too calm, too soft, and dripping with sympathy. Bernadette just sat there. Air filling her lungs - only leaving when it was needed in order to breath in once more. Her mind had fallen into a blank void of shock and confusion. She heard the doctor talk. She heard Bob reply. She heard the way her husband's voice broke in attempt to keep himself together. Bernadette could do nothing but sit there looking straight ahead at the room's white walls.  
The idea bounced around her head, yet still made no sense. It filled her blank thoughts as though taunting her. The realization shook- no, pushed her out of the dreamlike state that had washed over her mind after the news.  
"I'm dying," Bob shattered her train of thought - saying the words almost as though he was ensuring that she didn't have to. "I'm going to die."

If it had been her choice, Bernadette wouldn't have known he was dying at all. Why she didn't want to know was as confusing to her as it was to Bob. It was she who had dragged him to the doctors over what he'd taken to be minor common-or-garden troubles anyhow. Bob didn't at first didn't see why it was such a big deal - the headaches weren't all that bad and the other "possible symptoms of brain cancer" were there, but barely. He had been sure it was just some passing sickness. Nothing serious. Nothing to worry about. She had been too - and when it had come to light that this wasn't the truth, she regretted ever broaching the subject. She'd have sooner it had been sudden - sooner that she'd woken up one morning to a suspicious silence, and a cold body on the bathroom floor, just as she had Trumpet. If it was going to kill him - which it was, there was no avoiding it - then she'd rather be unaware until it happened The knowing too much, yet all the while knowing nothing at all, was torture - more torture, she was sure, than the shock and sickness and heartbreak all over again would be. At least she knew she could cope with that - she'd done it once before, hadn't she?

Not a lot broke Bernadette's heart but Bob was one of the few things that did. When she finally decided to go to bed, after hours in silence - tense and upright on the edge of the sofa, glass of Stoli in one hand and eyes filled with tears, with Bob elsewhere - she had peeked her head round the door of their room before walking in - just in case. Just in case she intruded on something; though after three years of life as a couple, and six months as a married one, there was little left unseen for either to intrude on. What she saw was Bob sitting in a the pink velvet-topped stool from her makeup table pulled up to the window, his elbows resting on the windowledge, and hands clasped together.  
"I'm not really the kind for praying...Hell, I don't even believe in you, but here I am - pathetic mess, begging for my life. Bet you've seen a lot of those before, huh? I know I'm being selfish, and I know that I'm getting on - I know my time's got to come at some point, but does it have to be now?...Listen, God - I only tied the knot with Bernie six months ago - I at least want to see our first anniversary...Is another year to much to ask for? For her sake, if not mine."   
Lips pursed and tears flooding down her cheeks, she'd spent the night wide awake, curled on the sofa in a foetal position, clutching one of his shirts to her chest like a child's comfort blanket, as though for dear life.

The awkward skirting around one another had lasted less than a day - she shed a lot more tears than he did, and he was the one staring the Grim Reaper directly in the face for fuck's sake. It frightened her how blasé he was being about the whole thing - it was entirely possible that the enormity of the situation hadn't yet occurred to him in its entirety. He seemed to worry only about what would become of her without him - how she'd cope with the funeral, and the loneliness that would imminently follow. But that night, they'd whiled away the aching wakefulness of the small hours of the morning - in one another's arms, crying together. And it was at that point that he stopped being so frustratingly male about the whole thing.   
"Bernie, I'm scared..."

It was in the final days of the first month that Bob became visibly sick. He grew pale, and skinnier than she'd ever seen him - to a frightening extent; there was less substance to him than there was to her, and she'd always been slim to the point of appearing slightly unhealthy. He didn't eat much anymore, and slept a lot. Walking had become a pain, but was still more-or-less possible - with a little assistance. When he wasn't sleeping, he spent every waking second with her. It didn't matter what they were doing - he just couldn't be alone. He didn't want to be. Every night, they'd sit on the porch and watch the sunset; every bit a picture-book couple of old geezers, but their chances of ever truly getting to grow old alongside one another had diminished down to below the single digits. Sure, it was a little cliche, but the way they both saw the world had shifted. Each breath had a possibility of being Bob's last, just as every sunset might be too. If there was a chance, he took it. And if Bernadette woke up the next morning to hear him snoring, or feel his warmth beside her, they were both lucky.

The start of the second month rolled around far too quickly. It was at this point that serious planning had to start being done, as much as it pained her. It was decided that Felicia would give the eulogy - Bernadette knew herself well enough to admit that she wouldn't be able to make it through the whole thing without bursting into tears, and Mitzi had a habit of shutting down into sullen silence if and whenever he found himself in a state of emotional distress - plus Adam found a way of bringing a slight humour even to the morbid. But the thought that had remained omnipresent throughout the entire process has been 'not again...' She wasn't ready. She couldn't handle another funeral; another day full of tears and well-meant, mind-numbing apologies and well wishes - only to go home to an empty house filled with floral tributes that, by the time the week was our, would no doubt be as dead as...no, she couldn't bring herself to say it. What worried her this time around was that he was not in her life simply for the sake of filling a space. She loved him for Christ's sakes - perhaps more than she loved herself. And she was beginning to wish that she didn't - because that would make things easier...

Bob had started forgetting things months before. It was never a huge deal. He'd never forget who he was, where he was, or who Bernadette was. It was just the odd time where he'd look at an apple and forget the name of the fruit; or he'd be thinking of a word and know its meaning, but not be able to say what he meant.  
As the second month dragged by, the forgetting became worse. It was no longer just the odd time where he couldn't name things. Now, he would be telling Bernie something, and he'd stop mid-sentence trying to put the pieces together and remember what they were talking about. Other times, the man would walk into a room and forget why he had taken so much effort to get up. He'd stumble back to where he was resting only to then remember why he had gotten up in the first place. Bernadette may have found it a little funny if the forgetfulness wasn't an indicator - and constant, cutting reminder - of the tumor killing her husband.

They had spent that last sunset curled up on the bench on the house's back patio underneath a blanket. Neither spoke as the sky filled with warm colours, and the thick, almost tangible humidity of a Sydney summer's day slipped away into a cooling evening breeze. A sad smile spread across Bernadette's lips as the peach and coral wisps of cloud disappeared into navy, and then black - constellations flickering and city lights filling the empty darkness with a pale orange glow beneath the light of a lemon moon. She fell asleep with her legs tucked underneath her; Bob's arm around her, and their fingers intertwined. And when she woke with the breaking of dawn, he was gone. As still as she'd ever seen him; his skin cold and ashen - yet with a ghost of a smile playing about his lips.

She had sworn to herself at the start that there was no way in hell that she could do this again - she couldn't tolerate another heartbreak; she couldn't face returning home to an empty house at the end of a day, or lying in bed at night with her back to empty space. Two months hadn't been enough time for her to make peace with it by any means - but it had given them a little warning, during which time they'd been able to pull away from the usual chaos of their lives - of one performance after another, and living life without a plan - and simply...be. They'd been allowed for a while just to exist quietly, in one another's comfort and company.

She wasn't alone, in coping with the loss. She had Tick, of course, and Benji - now twelve, he was a miniature Felicia in every sense besides stature; having sprouted like a weed, he was built like a rake, but still a good inch taller than his father's boyfriend, much to the latter's chagrin. Even Adam had managed to help her through her darkest days. But the lingering emptiness still hurt - she felt a knife-edged pain every time she'd absently call out for him to fetch this or remind her that during a day, only to remember that he couldn't hear her any longer, much less respond to her commands. A night had been spent in tears upon finding his cap in the glove-box of her car.

Remembering him was bittersweet - often slightly heavy on the bitter. It often fell short - she didn't want the memories, as sweet as they were. She wanted his gentility and kindness; his voice; his embrace; his touch.

She wanted him back. 

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, i am so fucking sorry :( 
> 
> I realise I haven't written anything enormously sad or angsty in far too long, so here you go. I did the drawing on a whim. 
> 
> Morbid as this may sound, but I've personally entertained the idea of Bernie and Bob's relationship being cut short by an untimely death for a while - more-or-less since learning of Bill Hunter's own tragic passing. I had initially wanted to write a similar story from Mitzi's POV regarding Bernadette's death - I'd had her down as breast cancer, which is a fairly common killer of trans women due to prolonged exposure to artificial hormones which the body isn't used to or something like that. But I couldn't bring myself to kill her off, so I took the alternative route and now I hate myself.


End file.
